10 Analogs Of The Future

Introduction-1

Introduction

Bill Wu: Yes, we like the play on words in the title to this collection. Though digital technology has overtaken the older analog tech, the metaphorical meaning of the word works for our purposes. And, happily, all of these stories first appeared in the magazine Analog Science Fiction and Fact. That title long ago replaced the magazine’s name “Astounding Stories” from an even earlier time. So we offer these tales as possibilities that may be analogous to our future, not as predictions.

I first met Rob Chilson on three occasions, which is to say, all three times seemed to be the first time. That’s another way of saying, neither of us cared about meeting the other the first two times; we had important concerns, instead.

We didn’t care that much the third time, either.

The first time, nearly lost in the mists of my own fuzzy memory, was in 1979, at the North American Science Fiction Convention in Louisville, Kentucky, a year when the world convention was in the United Kingdom. I was in my twenties and had sold a novelette to George Scithers, editor of Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, as it was named at the time, after my first two professional sales to British anthologies. I wanted to meet him and he was one of the guests of honor. Writer Michael D. Toman and a couple of other friends drove from East Lansing, Michigan, to get me in Ann Arbor, then we went south to Louisville.

I later came to know and like George Scithers, but this first occasion was awkward. After meeting him briefly Friday evening, I went to an open party advertised as being in one of the hotel rooms. It was the most stifling excuse for an s.f. con party I’ve ever seen.

I walked in through an open doorway; John M. Ford, who became a regular contributor to George, happened to be standing at the doorway and I’d met him the night before, too. Almost everyone else was sitting on the floor, with a few people on the sparse furniture. George introduced me, saying, “He writes for me,” which was nice to hear but a little odd, since I had sold him exactly one story. I found a place to stand and realized that no one else was speaking or moving. Everyone was watching George.

After a moment, George talked a little about the magazine. He was a retired Army colonel and his mannerisms seemed formal. Occasionally people would ask a question as though this was a class. One person actually raised his hand. George told all of us to feel free to speak right up.

No one did.

The atmosphere was infectious; I found myself with nothing to say and too intimidated to say it. While I wanted to leave, I felt I had to stay a while to be polite. After all, I planned to submit more stories to him in the future. When I decided I’d been polite enough, I thought about leaving and realized that any time anyone moved, the motion seemed to create a ripple effect as everyone looked to see what was happening. No one left.

So what does this have to do with Rob Chilson?

Someone braver than I was eventually left and I, with a polite nod to George, was sucked out in the slipstream.

I strode up the hall, deeply relieved, until I reached a spot where some guy I knew was talking to a guy I didn’t know. Back then, I was often teased for being skinny and the guy I didn’t know was around my height and about as skinny. The guy I knew—I have no memory of who that was—introduced the stranger to me as Rob Chilson. We shook hands and he asked me if “this was the way to the Scithers party.”

I coulda warned him. Any decent person would have. I, on the other hand, said, “Yeah,” and fled up the hallway. If the “party” atmosphere devoured him, so what? I gave Rob Chilson no further thought for a couple of years.

*****

Rob Chilson here. Bill’s account of our non-historic first meeting pretty much accords with mine. In 1979 I’d had three books published and a dozen or two stories in various magazines, starting in 1968. (It was painful to be so young.) But I’d only been to three or four conventions, though one was WorldCon ‘76 in Kansas City. I missed the best part of that con because, not having been invited, I did not go to any parties. (It was still painful to be so young!) Also, I attended as a fan, not knowing how to apply as a writer. But I attended Archon One in St. Louis as a writer, met Wilson “Bob” Tucker and other lights, and learned that I was invited to any and all parties. I’d also attended the last BYOBcon in Kansas City, in May ‘79, where I met Karl Edward Wagner and his delightful wife, Barbara. I was to meet them again at the NASFiC in Louisville. I think I had also been to my first Chambanacon in Champaign-Urbana, Ill.

I had arranged to carpool from St. Louis with some friends I’d met at Archon, and so I wasn’t as alone as I’d been at WorldCon. I had a few friends, one of whom accompanied me to Scithers’s party. Like Bill, I have absolutely no memory of who that could have been.

My memory of Scithers’s “Open House” is much like Bill’s: We were mostly young, inexperienced writers who feared to traduce the Unwritten Law. The more fearful in that the Law, being Unwritten, was also unknown to us. One false word and your career is over, we subconsciously felt. Also, our experience of authority was mostly limited to school, so we acted like a class, and being nerds, we weren’t the unruly ones. This in turn affected George, who fell into the role of teacher before a well-behaved class.

I have no idea how I got up the nerve to leave.

Our next, equally inconsequential meeting, was in Denver, WorldCon ‘81. By then I’d been to a number of regional cons, I had a number of friends, and Denvention ‘81 was my third national con. It was far more enjoyable than my first, and when I staggered into Stapleton International Airport, I’d had 19 hours of sleep in the past 5 days.

That may explain why I have almost no memory of meeting Bill Wu the second time. Or maybe he’s just not a memorable guy. I have a fuzzy image of an anonymous hotel hallway, of being introduced to a total stranger by, I think, whoever was with me. Be a kick if it was the same as the first introducer, but not likely. And the ships pass in the nighted hallway.

*****

Bill: That benighted hallway has always been fuzzy in my memory, but I remember the moment itself. I was going somewhere potentially interesting and, again, someone I knew in the hallway (I’m sure it was not the same guy as before, but he’s equally forgotten) introduced me to some other guy. It was Rob, of course, and I said, “I think we’ve met before.” He said, “Yes, I think we have.” Then I continued in my quest for that potentially interesting place and he ignored me in equal measure. “Who cares?” would express our mutual levels of interest.

In August of 1982, I moved back to the Kansas City area, where I was born and raised, but the move took up expenses that might otherwise have taken me to worldcon. I missed it that year but went to the airport to pick up someone who had gone. That guy, whom I could identify but don’t wish to embarrass by association with Rob and me, introduced me to Rob Chilson for the third time. Hey, this time the memory actually took. We shook hands in the airport for the third time, recalled that we had met previously, and then went our separate ways again. After all, who cares?

I saw Rob a number of times at the local science fiction club and the annual s.f. convention, ConQuest. We talked occasionally but not really very much. Between fall of ‘82 and spring of ‘84, I was occupied with writing a lot of fiction that never sold, rightfully so. I was also in a relationship, but never mind that now; I’m sure the woman in question wouldn’t care about being included here. Fortunately, I also was working on the book that would become my first published novel, while my fifth professional short fiction sale was published and even nominated for awards. I also sold a short story to Omni magazine, which brought about this event:

At a pre-convention party for the ‘84 Conquest, Rob and I were talking with some friends and I mentioned the sale to Omni. Rob said, “I never submitted there, because I thought it would too hard to sell there, but if he can do it, anybody can.” Much laughter followed, including mine.

That’s when I knew, five years after we were first introduced, that we could be friends. And the summer of 1984 turned out to be interesting, for sure.

*****

Rob again: My journey to our third and final first meeting began in the summer of ‘82. I had not intended to go to the Chicago worldcon that year, being impoverished, but I sold a story to a gamer ‘zine and had enough funds to buy a membership and about one-eighth of writer Robin Wayne Bailey’s room—he urged me to go, as I recall, a good decision. We had a crowded and fun convention, and the Baileys and I took the same plane home. In the airport waiting room we were approached by a teenaged boy who asked if we’d been to worldcon. We regarded him warily, for teenaged male s.f. fans can be socially inept, to put it gently. But this one was quite ept.

And as we deplaned at Kansas City, the lad was met by his mother, who had been driven to the airport by William F. Wu.

I looked at him with dawning recognition: Do I know that guy? After many minutes of conversation, we decided that we had…met.

(I never sold a word to Omni.) We met occasionally at meetings of the local club, where, having nothing else in common, we talked writing. (Writers have been known to do this.) I particularly remember one conversation because Bill had this hacking racking cough that left him so breathless all he could do was gasp, “Yeah,” in answer. Most intelligent and interesting conversation I ever had with him. We also met at a little writers’ conclave founded by Robin Wayne Bailey, where we ate hamburgers (ah, Gunter’s of fond memory!) and also talked writing. The upshot was a decision to collaborate. Whose idea was it? Well, if you like the stories here, it was my idea. If not, it was Bill’s.

THE UNGOOD EARTH

When Howard Hampton came up on the porch and knocked, Jimmy Li was sitting bleakly in the kitchen of the old Bigelow house. The younger man looked around dully, started to get up, then recognized his neighbor.

“Oh, it’s you; come on in, How.”

Jimmy was the only one who had called him “How” in forty years.

“Hope I’m not disturbin’ you,” he said. “The boys dropped in and I decided to make m’self scarce.” The screen door banged behind him.

“Not at all. Get you anything?” Jimmy had slumped back into his chair.

“No thanks,” said Howard, seating himself at the table. The pink-checked cloth was covered with papers: bank statements and some kind of advertisement, looked like a real estate ad.

“What’s eatin’ you?” he asked the younger man.

Jimmy Li was in his early fifties, though he looked younger with his short, still-black hair. He was chunky and muscular in his overalls. A city boy, he’d been to a regular college, not ag. Had had some fool notion of retiring and living on a farm; he’d told Howard it had something to do with distant Chinese ancestors. Howard had taken more interest in the younger man’s struggle than he had in his own. His help had paid off; the boy’d become a competent farmer.

Those distant Chinese must’ve passed on something; Howard’s grandsons lacked a quarter of Jimmy’s feel for the land.

“Don’t know if you saw this,” said Jimmy, pushing the ad toward him.

Howard glanced at the glossy brochure. “Come to think of it, my son John showed me somethin’ like this. Foolishness. I chucked it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the option,” said Jimmy. His dark face, darker from the sun these past two years, was glum.

Howard glanced uncertainly at the ad. National Chemical, Inc., had developed a new dry-land reed with these tailored genes they had, which braced itself not with cellulose, but with some damn kind of plastic fiber. They wanted to lease land and hire farmers to farm it, raising these things—their way.